Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 108: Nymphael, the Queen of Slumbering Vices

Chapter 108: Nymphael, the Queen of Slumbering Vices

That night, I couldn’t find sleep.

Not a second.

My body was exhausted, drained by accumulated tension, but my mind stubbornly refused to quiet. It spun, returned, slammed against the same images—again and again—obsessed with Cassandre, with her silence, with her frozen stillness at Aranael’s side, as if she already belonged to a world I no longer had access to.

So, unable to close my eyes, unable even to lie down, I had gotten up.

And I had walked.

Aimlessly, with no real direction, just so I wouldn’t stay still.

I wandered in silence through the dark alleys of the camp, my steps swallowing the beaten earth, my eyes gliding over the sleeping tents, the blurred silhouettes of sentinels, the dying flames casting long, fragile shadows on the ground, like ghosts drawn by the moon.

I wasn’t looking for anything. I was fleeing. And even that, I was only half doing.

As I roamed, many figures revealed themselves at the edges of tents or in the pale glow of braziers, and I gradually became aware of the diversity reigning here. Different races of vampires, with marked features, distinct appearances, postures shaped by centuries of custom. Each one, I guessed, bore the mark of one of the Lords glimpsed earlier in the tent—a silent loyalty, almost palpable, inscribed in the way they stood, the way they breathed, the way they looked at you without seeing you.

But beyond faces, clans, variations in aura or attire, one thing kept returning.

The number 7.

And the more I observed it, the more it troubled me.

I didn’t know exactly why, but something about that number disturbed me. It appeared too often, too mechanically, like a constant imposed on the universe without anyone finding it odd.

Seven Lords per race. Seven great nations. Seven sub-races defined for each lineage. Seven basic classes, thus seven possible directions for each progression. And, more disturbingly, those seven mini-worlds—those fragments of universe tied to my unique-rank skill—as if my own anomaly didn’t escape this overly rigid, too perfectly chiseled logic.

It all seemed too orderly to be natural. Too coherent. Too exact.

As if the world itself had been sculpted from a pre-existing plan. As if everything, absolutely everything, obeyed a greater formula. Too vast to be a coincidence.

And yet, no matter how much I thought about it, turned it over in my mind, analyzed the idea from every angle, I got nothing from it. No concrete meaning. No useful direction.

Just a feeling of imbalance.

So, reluctantly, I decided to set the number aside, at least for now. Not to lose myself further in conjectures that, for the moment, could bring me nothing. I stored the thought in a corner of my mind, like one locks away a disturbing dream that you know will return anyway.

But later. Not now.

And as I continued my wandering, slowly, without a defined goal, lost somewhere between the need for solitude and the dull fear of facing my thoughts, I came upon her.

She was there, as if sprung from the scenery, as if the night itself had sculpted her at that precise moment to interrupt my path.

And immediately, my whole body froze.

That woman... had a beauty so striking, so outrageously controlled, that she could have broken any man’s concentration with a single glance. A beauty that had nothing innocent. Nothing naive. She was made to be seen. To be desired. And she knew it.

Her silhouette was perfectly shaped, disturbingly balanced, and her outfit—revealing without being provocative—emphasized every curve with an artistry that bordered on the sublime. Her dress flowed over her like a second skin, fluid, dark, suggesting more than it concealed, and every step she took seemed orchestrated to disturb.

But it wasn’t just her body.

It was that lipstick, a deep violet, perfectly matching the supernatural glow of her iris—a violet iris, set in the heart of her eyes black as night, like two abysses in which that rare color seemed to dance alone, hypnotic, sovereign.

She wasn’t just attractive.

She was constructed to be irresistible.

And her name came to my mind like a soft, slow, but undeniable blade.

Nymphael.

"What a coincidence, running into you, Lukaris," she said, slowly unfolding her black fan with violet highlights, perfectly matching the rest of her attire, as if every gesture, every detail had been designed to prolong the enchantment.

I looked at her for a moment, unmoving, not bothering to hide my irritation.

"A coincidence I would’ve preferred to avoid," I replied, almost distractedly, without much thought, but with enough distance for the intention to be clear.

Her smile widened, a little sharper, a little crueler.

"Oh, look at that... the little vampire doesn’t think he’s just anyone, does he? Do you even know I could kill you before you realized it?"

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t flinch.

"Oh yes, I know... Great Lady Nymphael, Queen of Slumbering Vices."

She stared at me, her eyes glittering with a light both mocking and intrigued, as if she hesitated between playing and biting.

"Then why are you so insolent?"

I smiled gently, without provocation, with a lightness tinged with cold lucidity.

"You see... I know that here, no one can harm another. Not without paying the price. And you must have understood that too: I’m under Lady Aranael’s protection. It would be... let’s say, very foolish, to get on her bad side."

My smile barely stretched, not openly insolent, but enough to send the message.

She didn’t respond right away.

And in that suspended silence, something settled between us. A game, perhaps. Or a line.

But I knew she had understood.

"I find it quite strange," she murmured, in a falsely thoughtful tone, while idly turning her closed fan between her fingers, as if talking to herself yet ensuring she was clearly heard.

"The way Lady Aranael suddenly takes the side of a mere little vampire... It’s not like her, you see. She’s not known to make such gestures without a reason. Unless, of course, someone asked her to."

Her gaze slid to mine, sharper than mocking.

"But the problem is... the number of people capable of making such a request to her isn’t exactly a legion. Neither in this world, nor even... above."

I nodded slowly, without denying, without retreating an inch.

"I completely agree with you," I answered calmly, each word weighed like a fine blade. And in saying so, I confirmed her suspicion.

She stood still.

Then, in a slow, precise movement, she placed the tip of her folded fan against her chin, looking thoughtful. And she tapped it.

Once.

The sound barely clicked, but it resonated.

Twice.

A little louder.

Three times.

The echo settled like an ancient rumor, something almost mechanical, as if that muted scene obeyed a ritual only she knew the end of.

And when she spoke again, it was in a calm tone, almost detached, as if proposing a harmless game, a trivial whim.

"Let’s get married, Lukaris."

I froze.

For a moment.

Then my mouth slowly opened, unable to hold back the word that pierced me through.

"What...?"

She began to laugh.

Not a haughty laugh, nor cruel, nor provocative.

A strangely soft laugh, almost cute, unexpected from her lips, as if, for a brief moment, she had allowed herself to become a woman rather than a myth. She looked at me like one looks at a toy that reacted beyond expectations.

"You didn’t expect that, did you?" she murmured, her lips curled into a smile that betrayed no embarrassment. "Know that I’m not playing completely at random. I know there’s something important behind you. Something you’re hiding, or something you don’t yet understand. I won’t deny it. You’d have to be as stubborn as that poor Mikaem to pretend not to see. And... I like your personality. You don’t grovel. You don’t tremble. Not even in front of a mythical being."

I stood there, arms slightly extended at my sides, fists discreet, heart beating faster than it should have. And I answered without forcing, in a low voice, almost tired.

"You know... My heart already belongs to another."

She tilted her head to the side, her fan brushing again against her chin.

"Hmmm... That’s not a problem," she said in a whisper. "You can have several. As long as I’m the first."

And there... I was speechless.

Not just because she had spoken those words with such simplicity, such confidence that it became almost unreal, but because something in me, deeply, wavered. The shock wasn’t in the proposal anymore. It was in what it implied.

Had she understood? Had she sensed the link that bound me to Noctis? Was that what she was targeting? Was that her entire strategy, her bold move, a political maneuver disguised in a smile and the softness of a voice?

I didn’t know what she knew. Or how far.

But one thing was certain: this request wasn’t a whim. It was an offer. Calculated. Considered. Comparable, in a way, to Xagros’s when he made me the Grand Varkh—except here, the stakes were different. More intimate. More total.

A marriage?

Strategically, I knew, it would make me a pillar of the vampiric world. The husband of a mythical being. A name impossible to ignore. An ascension etched into the alliance itself.

But my mind, despite all those considerations, couldn’t help but return to where everything began.

Cassandre.

Her face appeared, fragile, painful, real. I saw her again in that room, absent and present, distant and yet so close to me that even space couldn’t push her away.

I couldn’t.

She would resent me.

And I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.

And so, to flee from that request, to grant myself a moment’s reprieve in a game whose rules and depths I didn’t understand, I answered calmly, without anger, without irony, with a clearer, more composed voice, almost detached now that the initial shock had passed.

"I couldn’t accept without that woman’s consent, Lady Nymphael."

But she, far from being offended, far from retreating, came closer.

With a slow step. Precise. Silent.

Her gaze locked to mine, burning with a troubling intensity, she closed the distance between us without ever looking away, as if every gesture was a deliberate offering, calculated, yet effortless.

Then, slowly, her body pressed against mine.

Her chest leaned into my torso, her hip brushed mine in an almost unreal slowness, and through the thin fabric of her dress, I felt the warmth of her skin, her calm breath, her intoxicating scent, mixing night flowers, soft ash, and something older, deeper, almost animal.

She tilted her head slightly, letting a dark strand fall on her bare shoulder, and whispered near my ear, in a nearly lazy murmur, but filled with a strange tension—as if her words wove their way through the silk of her voice:

"So... you don’t find me attractive? Don’t you want to spend the night with me?"

Her fingers slid along my neck, with that natural mastery that didn’t seek to seduce... but to claim. As if she didn’t doubt for a second the effect she provoked. As if my refusal were only a game—a necessary step in the dance.

And for a suspended moment, I no longer knew whether it was a threat, an offering, or a trap. Perhaps all three at once.

Despite the temptation, despite the discreet fire rising to my temples, despite the proximity of that body sculpted to dominate wills, there was, at that very moment, only one image capable of piercing the fog of my senses and imposing itself unchallenged in my mind.

Cassandre.

Her gaze, her absence, her place in me—fixed, irreplaceable, painful—were enough to hold my breath steady.

So, in an effort I felt down to the palms of my hands, I stepped back.

Slowly. Calm on the surface. But every fiber of my body screamed the tension of that restrained movement.

And I spoke.

"I’m sorry, Lady Nymphael... but that won’t work on me."

She didn’t seem surprised.

With a slow, almost weary gesture, she unfolded her fan in front of her face, fluttered it once, twice, in a soft, almost theatrical motion that barely hid the smile I could guess behind the taut silk.

"I knew it wouldn’t work on you," she whispered. "But it only strengthens my desire for this marriage."

Her voice was soft, but there was a disturbing note in her tone—not anger, not humiliation, just a quiet certainty, as if my refusal had sealed something rather than stopped it.

I then understood I had to leave.

Quickly.

My heart was still beating too fast, too hard, like a drum struck by an invisible hand. I had to cut this short before the scene tipped, before the balance broke.

"On that note," I said in a more formal tone, with a slight bow, "I shall take my leave. I wish you a pleasant night."

She didn’t respond.

She may have watched me walk away, but I didn’t look back. I just moved forward with quick steps, breath short, the nape of my neck still charged with her presence, until I found the familiar path back to the tent.

There, under the silent canvas, Lysara was still asleep.

And in that calm darkness, I could finally breathe again.

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